Chapter Eight: Opening Day

April 10

Potter County Memorial Stadium, home of the Amarillo Gold Sox, is a huge iron-beamed dinosaur of a park. Set in an industrial neighborhood of factories and vacant lots, this relic can hold 6,500 fans, but never does.

Lugging equipment bags and hangered uniforms, Charlie and I trudge through the turnstile and into the bowels of the stadium. The iron pillars creak and groan with the wind.

“I think Bill Klem umpired here,” I say, but Charlie doesn’t answer.

We ask a security guard for the GM’s office and are pointed toward an unmarked door beneath the stands. We knock and enter, and Lee Monheimer rises from his desk to greet us. He is all smiles and southern hospitality.

“Hi, boys,” he says, shaking our hands. “Long drive? Check in to your motel okay? Let me show you to your dressing room. I’m afraid you have to share it with our washer and dryer.” He gives us a friendly wink. “Life in the bush leagues, eh?”

Our dressing room is a bunker with peeling paint, a place you’d seek out only in the event of nuclear war. Crammed in there with us, besides the spinning washer and tumbling dryer, is a stack of cardboard boxes, a laundry basket, two chairs, a bench, and a tiny shower with a curtain that may or may not have been shredded by an enraged manager.

“It’s not much, but it’s home,” I say with humor drier than a Bob Hope martini.

An hour later we are dressed and ready to go. As we emerge from beneath the stands and walk out onto the field, I feel a rush of emotion that throws me back in time . . .  I am ten years old and the Giants have just moved to San Francisco. It’s my first major league game, Seals Stadium, and as I emerge from tomblike darkness beneath the stands into the sun-drenched bleachers, I am struck by the vibrancy of the colors. Orange and black uniforms, blue sky, green grass. I’ve never seen green hues any richer than the outfield grass of a well-tended baseball field.

We meet with the managers at home plate and go over ground rules. We all know each other from spring training and the banter is light. Bob “Buck” Rodgers, the El Paso manager, is mid-forties, good sense of humor, well liked by his players. Amarillo manager Dave Campbell is younger still, with sandy hair and boyish good looks.

Charlie points out that both managers are undefeated, which accounts for their good moods. More banter follows. Then Campbell, as home manager, explains the ground rules to us.

The usual weak jokes ensue:

“A ball hit over the fence is a home run . . .”

“We don’t have anybody who can hit it that far . . .”

Someone in the press box puts the needle on a static-riddled record of a woman singing the National Anthem. We remove our hats and face the outfield flags. Rodgers, standing next to me, squeezes words out of the side of his mouth. “I’d appreciate a quick game, Steve. I got a honey in the stands who has made me an offer I can’t refuse, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.”

When the Anthem ends, I say, “You don’t fret much about this game, do you?”

Buck shakes his head. “Kid, you can’t let baseball give you ulcers.”

The managers depart, Rodgers for the third-base coaching box, Campbell for the dugout. The Gold Sox take the field, spurred on by the cheers of 1,200 fans. Charlie and I have umpired hundreds of games together and feel no need to review mechanics. So I just slap him on the shoulder, say, “Have a good one,” and trot out to short right field.

While pitcher Juan Eichelberger throws warm-up pitches that Charlie eyeballs from behind the catcher, I stretch calves and hamstrings. In our two-man umpiring system, we will run more than most players (who, after all, sit for at least half the game). What’s more it’s a cold night, making us more susceptible to pulled muscles, and what would be worse than getting injured on Opening Night?

Despite getting two hours of sleep in the last twenty-four, I feel good, energized. Adrenaline courses by veins; my legs feel strong. At last a game that counts!

I’m not far from the El Paso bullpen when someone there yells, “You should be doing exercises for your eyes.”

Looking in that direction I see six Diablo players, all radiating innocent schoolboy smiles. I cup my hands and shout back, “What’s this—the group-W bench?  They put you guys out here to air out the dugout?”

Play ball!

El Paso jumps out to an early lead, but in the sixth inning Gold Sox player-coach Ivan Murrell, an ex big leaguer, belts a home run. After circling the bases, he trots over to the stands, removes his hat, and holds it out like a collection plate. Fans, many of them kids, charge down the aisles and drop money in the hat. Murrell collects $68 for his efforts.

In between innings, I sidle down to Charlie and suggest that our great calls ought to be worth money, too. He doubts it will catch on.

It’s a cold Texas evening, and we wear dark turtlenecks beneath out dark Salvation Army suit coats. During a lull in the third inning first baseman Terry Stupy, whose humor I appreciate, looks at me and says, “You ever see the Addams Family?”

I eye him suspiciously. “Once or twice . . . why?”

“In that outfit, you look a lot like Lurch.”

“Thanks, you bastard. And by the way, you’re out of the game.”